


Screwed Twice

by ravensandwritings



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Detective Edward Nygma, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravensandwritings/pseuds/ravensandwritings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't a proper Gotham caper if you didn't get screwed twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screwed Twice

Word on the street was that you couldn’t call a job a proper Gotham caper if your employer didn’t screw you twice. Edward knew this; in fact, he used to be a master of the ‘screw twice’ adage – making sure that he got the biggest cut, the best billing, the shiniest objects. The Riddler’s ego had demanded the biggest piece of the pie.  It wasn’t the first time he was the one being screwed, though, and the future forecast pointed to it not being the last, either.

It would surprise no one that this was not the first time that a case had lead him to being tied to a chair, beaten bloody and awaiting a gruesome end. In retrospect, Edward thought that maybe _too many_ cases were leading him to be trussed up like a Thanksgiving Turkey and left to roast over the proverbial coals. Any number greater than zero was too many, actually.

He kept track of the facts first. He was bound. His hands were behind his back, roped to what was probably a wooden chair. His ankles were free, but the rope binding him to the chair was so far proving difficult.  His wrist-knife was gone. They’d kept his hands apart, and the knots out of reach—they’d done some homework at least, his captors – his ability to escape bonds was legendary, even for Gotham.

But his cane was still within reach—with some wiggling and finagling – he might reach it. Maybe before they came back. Best get to wobbling that damn chair over there; trying not to fall over—that’d make cutting himself free a pain in the ass.

The chair went _wobble-wobble_ with each rock of his weight. He felt a leg catch,  creak, and the then the floor rushed up to greet him.

  _I hate this job._

Elsewhere, it was nearing the end of a quiet night. Coming up on nearly four am, the Batman perched on a gargoyle listening for any new reports from the Cave. They were coming up clean.

“I think we’ve cleaned up the streets for the evening,” he said. His son, currently  lounging on another edifice didn’t even look up from his phone.

“If you say so. I think we could stand to do one more sweep.” The Robin that never slept, always eager for conflict.

The hunger for action worried Batman. _Would that fade with time, or would that be the Al Ghul gift that kept on giving?_ But then, it had hardly been the first time a Robin had excess rage, had it? So long as he could keep the boy from Jason Todd’s end, then… then it’d work out in the end.

“No, I think we can retire for the evening.” He stood straight, unhooking his grapple gun from his belt. Robin did the same, ready to launch after his father’s lead.

The chime of an incoming message stopped them both

“Batman, you still on patrol?” His eldest protégé’s voice came down the line. Dick Grayson, former Robin, once Nightwing, and first of the Batmen of Batman Incorporated.

“Just about to retire. You have something for me?”

“Yeah. Edward Nygma’s GPS unit just went dark.”

Batman frowned beneath the cowl.

“Last known coordinates?” he asked. Dick provided them quickly enough.

“One last errand, then?” Robin said, grinning fiercely. “Maybe Nygma’s finally given up on reform.”

“That isn’t something you should _hope_ for,” Batman replied flatly; there was the hiss-clank of his grapple gun finding purchase, and he swung out into the night. Robin followed, a sharply sounded _tt_ conveying just what he thought about reformed rogues.

 

 

The quest for the cane was not futile in the end, but it was an enormous pain. Wibble-wobbling chairs had left Edward on his side, the head of the cane cracked against the concrete. He didn’t care. He had several canes, and this one and its sword would do well enough. The ropes gave way with some awkward cutting, and he nicked his wrist in more than one place trying to work it back and forth one handed.

By the time he was free, his arms shared the ache in his face – there was no mirror to see how bad the damage was, but maybe it was better not to. He saw a glimpse of ragged red flesh in the brassy gleam of his cane’s handle, but didn’t try and angle it to get a better look. He had bigger things to worry about than his vanity.

He sheathed the cane’s sword and got to his feet.  He couldn’t lean on it heavily – not with his arms feeling about as strong as Pad Thai noodles.

  _Right, Eddie. You’re in a boat with drug running murderers who definitely murdered your client’s brother, and you were totally set up to die when you uncovered too much. Standard case in Gotham. What’s the next step?_

Get out alive with the evidence. They’d taken his phone and his wallet, his gun and both his knives – but not the ring on his finger that unfolded into lock picks, not the cane they’d left leaning against the wall… and not the best weapon of all: his genius.

_Alright, you rank amateurs. Let’s see how you deal with me when I’m ready for you._

 

 

At the docks, things were going south. Batman and Robin stood among the toppled forms of thugs and drug runners, but had no Edward Nygma. There was, however, a boat somewhere off shore, and heading away at a good clip. No scheduled departures. So that was his fleeing criminal, possibly Edward Nygma.

“We’re going to need the jet or the boat,” Robin said as he stood in the center of a fallen combatant’s chest, listening to him wheeze. “Unless you have jet skis hidden around here.”

“I just radioed for aerial pick up,” Batman said. “ETA on arrival is  eight minutes.”

“Here’s hoping the Riddler can last that long,” Robin said, as he hopped off the fallen thug and headed for the rooftops.

Batman followed, scowling. _What have you gotten into this time, Nygma?_

 

 

He was in the engine room now. Minimal guards, but the crew had been troublesome. Seeing clearly was getting difficult; some asshole had hit him with a wrench. Blood in his eyes complicated the loss of his glasses. The joys of being self-employed meant that’d come out of his own pocket – no vision insurance.

What an enormous pain in the ass this case was becoming. Duped, kidnapped, beat up, probably going to be murdered and dumped in the bay. Great way to cap off the weekend. He thought he’d have this one in the bag and be home in time for a nice, if late night, meal and tea.

Instead, he was sabotaging the engine of a yacht bought with drug money and prostitution. At least Ozzie would be glad for one up and coming rival in the vice business taken out, right? Not that he did that anymore. He didn’t work for Ozzie like that. He only did straight, law abiding cases.

At least that’s what he told himself when killed power and found himself plunged into the dark. He heard sounds – distant shouts, on different decks.

He mouthed the words in the dark: _Shall we play a game?_ Shaping them with a smirk that hurt, he took up a crewman’s weapon – a low powered pistol, a boot knife – and reminded himself he now had to work his way up through whatever waited for him.

Well, at least it was a challenge _._

 

The jet had arrived approximately eight minutes after Batman’s call, just as estimated. Grappling, Batman and Robin took up their seats as Alfred steered them unerringly toward the target that had been transmitted.

“Scanners are showing a yacht, no obvious armaments, sir,” Alfred said, as he closed the distance. “Just men with guns. Nothing that should trouble the pair of you.”

“ _Tt_. Of course not, Pennyworth,” Robin said.

“Any information on the yacht’s owner?” Batman asked.

“Transmitted to your onboard computer,” Alfred said. “Looks like the girl’s changed hands and names several times. Latest owner is one of our newer players on the scene, one Ryan Billings. Attempting to get himself a piece of the drug trade, it seems. He also recently took on Edward Nygma to investigate a closed case on the murder of his twin brother, Benjamin “Benny” Billings…”

“Who was a member of the Two Ton gang,” Batman muttered.

“Looks like the Two Ton gang is getting a new shot of life, without Mr. Dent and his right hand at the helm,” Alfred said. “Are you two ready for your drop off?”

Batman gave a half-hearted affirmative as the jet came in low enough, ramp lowering in the back. Robin was at his side, eager to be unleashed, a hound after foxes. They dove into the night cold night air, their impact on the top deck invisible, barely audible.

It was time to go to work.

 

 

Two decks down, God only know how many there were to go. Edward panted softly, curled in the stairwell between decks. He’d almost emptied his clip getting up this far, but he had a couple of bullets left. Leaving the wounded in his wake, he staggered into the next floor, hoping to make it all the way up to the command deck, where the radio would surely be located and he could send out a mayday.

The stairs taunted him each one harder to take than the next. He dragged himself upward, reminding himself that he had a fancy gallery showing to go to next weekend with his fantastic new lover and he wasn’t about to miss that.  A week of rest and some make up and okay the stitches would probably be visible but it was Gotham. He’d look… 

He’d look…

He was on the floor again. Blood loss and a beating were taking its toll.  He put his cane out, hauled himself to his feet, and gripped the railing. The ship continued to thrum under his feet, moving at a good clip into the Atlantic. 

“You’re going to look Goddamn delectable,” he said to the empty air. “Good enough that you’re going to get a blowjob in the car on the way home from the fancy fundraiser. That’s how good. C’mon, Eddie, move!”

Pep talk given, he marched himself up the stairs. Faster, faster. There was a commotion on deck. He could hear it—where they coming to get him? If so, he’d greet them with his sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, like some sort of deranged leprechaun pirate in his blood stained trademark emerald suit.

He stomped the door open and drew up his gun, getting a bead on the batsymbol in the center of a man’s chest. He paused. He lowered his gun.

“You’re _late_ ,” he spat at Batman, and then gave up on consciousness. Someone else could be a hero. He was going to take a long, and well earned, nap.

 

 

An hour later, Alfred was saying, “He’ll be fine. Just a bit of blood loss and someone concussed him.”

The cowl came off, and Bruce sat back in his chair frowning at the screen. He forwarded data to the police – they’d get to the ship in no time, and find in as directed. Edward had done a good job in cutting the power – they’d never get it restored by the time the Coast Guard got out there to handle it. 

“Did you restrain him to make sure that he’d say in bed?” Bruce asked.

“He’s your lover, sir,” Alfred replied primly. “Anything of that nature I leave entirely to _your_ discretion.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and headed directly for the medbay; sure enough, it was empty. He went upstairs, to find Edward had made it as far as a chair in the study. Bruce palmed his face, and tried not to sigh. He detached the cape and threw it over his lover, reaching out to touch his hair. The gesture was half comfort, half a motion so he could check the stitches that tracked across the cut in his brow.

Edward cracked one eye open; green and bloodshot. Then he blinked, and both eyes opened. The other wasn’t so bad.

“So much for the gallery next weekend,” he muttered.

“We’ll go another time,” Bruce said as he knelt down beside Edward’s chair. “You’ll recover.”

“I know. Still, we schedule these things so rarely, Bruce.”

“There’ll be other occasions,” Bruce told him.

Edward pouted, but his abused face simply didn’t create the affect he wanted and he gave it up almost as quickly as he began.

Alfred came up through the hidden clock-door. He nodded to both men, before he vanished ito the hall.

“How’d you know to come look?” Edward asked as he settled again, hands spreading over the heavy, draped cape. “I was practically off the grid by the time you got there.”

“Dick’s still got that GPS of yours on watch, from his time under the cowl,” Bruce told him. “We followed it, got lucky.”

“I would have handled it,” he said, as petulant as Damian ever was about his capabilities being questioned. “I always do.”

“I know,” Bruce said, biting back the urge to betrate him. He wasn’t a Robin, he was a grown man. His lover. Also, concussed and wouldn’t process any of this well.  “We’ll discuss it tomorrow, when you’re clear-headed.”

“Don’t treat me like a child, Bruce,” Edward began, but Alfred clearing his voice in the doorway.

“Tea for Master Edward – and you too, Master Bruce. “he said, as he set the tea service on a nearby table.  “We’ll need to wake you regularly for the next few hours because of the concussion. I’ll go fold down the bed. Master Bruce can see about your proper restraint to get rest there.”

Edward coughed and winced at once, brows trying to lift and only managing to pull his stitches painfully. He’d yet to get used to Alfred’s sharp wit and refusal to be cowed by his employer and son in everything but name.

“And you said your man didn’t spy on us,” Edward stage-whispered to Bruce. There was no joking with the stone-faced Batman; he was busy accepting a tea cup from Alfred. The second, he passed into Edward’s hands.

Alfred excused himself to another part of the house; Bruce could hear Damian’s voice in the hall, but he didn’t bother to pick at it. He needed to have words with his son about his commentary later, anyway. For now, Edward was safe at home and everything was alright.

“Go shower and clean up,” Edward said between sips of his tea. “I promise I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you get back. I’m concussed, not on the edge of death. I’m practically cozy, right here, and the cape would stop a bullet in the case of random, suicidal house invaders hitting stately Wayne Manor.”

Bruce frowned slightly, but put his half empty tea on the table.

“Promise you’ll be right here, drinking your tea, when I get back.”

“I’ll be here,” Edward said, and Bruce rose—he kissed his lover’s temple, and went to finish stripping down and washing away the sweat and stink of a long but productive night.

 

 

Edward woke to heat and pressure—motion and movement jarred him from his rest. His fingers flexed, but found themselves empty. The tea cup was gone.

“Bruce?”

“I have you,” his lover answered, and carried him through the dimly lit halls of the manor. There was a _hrumph_ from the side, and Edward heard Bruce say, “Go to bed, Damian.”

Edward let his eyes close again. His dignity was wounded, but knowing that Damian lover’s son was still put out over Bruce moving on from Damian’s mother was almost like a victory. The boy had picked up some choice slurs from the internet, but at least he’d stopped saying them where anyone in the family could hear. Bruce was confident he’d grow out of it. (Because Bruce was going to _make sure he did_.)

A few minutes of minor jostling later, Edward was settled down on a bed—Bruce pulled off his shoes, helped him out of his clothes, and took the cape away and passed it to a waiting Alfred. An alarm was set; Alfred would come check on them to make sure Edward hadn’t lapsed into a coma in a few hours.

A moment later, Bruce eased his own bruised body into the bed. The lights went out, and Edward drifted in silence; not asleep again, but weary down to the bone.

“You do know I don’t expect you to _be me_ ,” Bruce said, as he carefully arranged himself at Edward’s side. “You’re doing some great work, and people need you in a different capacity than the city needs Batman.”

“You are not allowed to lecture me about the risks I take in my work in bed,” Edward mumbled. “We all know it’s dangerous, even if I’m taking completely above-board cases.”

“I just want you to know you have nothing to _prove…”_

“I have everything to prove!” Edward regretted the vehemence in his voice as soon as the words were out of his mouth and only half because it hurt his face when he snarled at his lover. Bruce’s silence was deafening

“I’m a reformed super criminal,” Edward went on, voice gentled. “Every case is a test of my ability to perform without the bounds of the law—and to test my ability to work around it. You know that.”

“You know I’ve come to trust you to do what’s right; for your clients, and for the city,” Bruce said, voice kept low. Trust was something neither of them gave easily or often.

Edward reached out, finding Bruce’s; they wove fingers, held on to each other. He wouldn’t thank him for the gift of his trust. That was not how they worked. Instead, he just settled himself at Bruce’s side, eyes closing as he mumbled something that was suspiciously apologetic.

 _Not quite the typical Gotham caper_ , he thought as he felt Bruce’s arms close around him, drawing him close. _Only got screwed once tonight._

But there was always other nights.

              

 

 


End file.
